The show will be presented at 8 P.M. in the Rare Animal Pavilion, and will feature color slides, videotapes, rare outdoor film footage and a Claymation exhibit. Admission is $4 for adults, $2.50 for children.
Kingsbury reread the press release as they jolted down the cart path with Jake Harp at the wheel. When they stopped next to his golf ball, Kingsbury shoved the paper back at Chelsea. “It sounds awfully damn … what’s the word?”
“Authentic, sir. This is what we’re up against.”
“I mean, hell, it sure puts me off the candy machines.”
“It’s fooling the reporters, too,” Chelsea said.
“You say this maniac’s got—what, two goddamn boxes?”
“That’s what’s missing.”
Jake Harp said, “If you’re not going to play that lie, pick the damn thing up.”
Kingsbury paid no attention. “I guess we’ll need—obviously, what am I saying!—get a new letterhead for Publicity.”
“I ordered it this morning,” Chelsea reported. “I’m afraid it won’t be ready for two weeks.”
“Don’t tell me—God, two weeks. So what do we do if your theory’s right? If it’s Winder, I mean.” Kingsbury took his stance and rifled a six-iron dead into the heart of a tea-colored pond.
“See what happens when you run your mouth,” said Jake Harp.
“The options are limited,” Chelsea told Kingsbury. “Do we come right out and admit it’s a fake? A disgruntled former employee, blah, blah, blah. Or do we roll with it? Take the hit and hope it’s over.”
“Is that your advice? Roll with it?”
“For now, yes.”
“Me too,” Francis Kingsbury said. “Besides, Pedro’s on the case.” A brand-new golf ball appeared in Kingsbury’s right hand, and he dropped it with a flourish on the fairway. This time he nailed the six-iron to the center of the green, fifteen feet from the flag.
Jake Harp blinked sullenly and said nothing.
A duel.
That’s how Charles Chelsea saw it. The ultimate test of skills.
He warmed up the word processor and began to write:
The outbreak of viral hepatitis among performers at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills was not as serious as first believed, according to a respected epidemiologist who visited the popular tourist attraction Friday.
The disease was confined to only four persons, none of whom became seriously ill, according to Dr. Neil Shulman, an international expert on liver pathology.
“Visitors to the Amazing Kingdom are in absolutely no danger,” Dr. Shulman declared. “There’s no evidence that the disease originated here. The food and beverages I’ve sampled are perfectly safe—and tasty, too!”
Initially it was believed that five persons were infected with hepatitis. Later, however, it was determined that one of the ill employees was actually suffering from gallstones, a common and nontransmittable disorder.
The four men who were diagnosed with hepatitis all began showing symptoms on Wednesday morning. Contrary to earlier reports, however, the victims did not contract the virus from contaminated candy purchased at a vending machine in the Amazing Kingdom. It is now believed that the men—all of whom portray members of Uncle Ely’s Elves—became infected during a recent promotional trip to the Caribbean aboard a Nassau-based cruise ship.
Moe Strickland, the crusty character actor who immortalized the character of Uncle Ely, recalled how some of his troupe had complained of “funky-tasting lobster” during the four-day excursion. Viral hepatitis has an incubation period of 15 to 45 days.
Those who were stricken spent only one night in the hospital, and are now resting comfortably at home. Although their conditions are good, they will not return to work until doctors are sure that they are not contagious.
Dr. Shulman, who has written extensively for national medical journals, said he is certain that the disease has been contained, and that no other employees or visitors to the Amazing Kingdom are in jeopardy. “It’s as safe as can be,” he said. “In fact, I’m staying over the weekend myself so I can ride the new porpoise!”
Skimming the text, Charles Chelsea changed the word “outbreak” to “incidence.” Then, with uncharacteristic fire, he punched the Send button.
To an invisible enemy he snarled, “All right, Joey. It’s go time.”
The queasy feeling that always accompanied the prospect of bad publicity had given way to a fresh sense of challenge; Chelsea felt he’d been training his whole professional life for such a test. He was up against an opponent who was talented, ruthless and quite possibly insane.
As much as Chelsea feared and distrusted Winder, he respected his creative skills: the vocabulary, so rich in adjectives; the glib turn of an alliterative phrase—and, of course, the speed. Joe Winder was the fastest writer that Chelsea had ever seen.
Now it was just the two of them: Winder, holed up God knows where, hammering out inflammatory libels as fast as his fingers could fly. And on the other end, Chelsea himself, waiting to catch these malicious grenades and smother them. The alternative— meaning, to tell the truth—was unthinkable. To admit a hoaxster was loose, forging demented fantasies on Amazing Kingdom letterhead … what a story that would make. In their excitement the media would come all over themselves. Even worse, each publicity announcement from the theme park would be scrutinized severely by reporters and editors, whose careers are seldom enhanced by getting duped into print. One thing that Charles Chelsea (or any PR flack) didn’t need was a more toxic level of skepticism and suspicion among the journalists he was supposed to manipulate.
So telling the truth about Joe Winder was out of the question. Whatever revolting fable Winder concocted next, Chelsea would be ready to extinguish it with press releases that were both calm and plausible. One pack of lies softening another.
It was going to be one roaring hell of a battle.
As the Publicity Department’s fax machines were launching Chelsea’s counterattack against the hepatitis scare, Moe Strickland arrived to bitch about sick pay and what the almighty Screen Actors Guild would say.
He lit up a cigar and said, “The union would go nuts.”
“We don’t recognize the union,” Chelsea said coolly. “I really don’t understand your objections, Moe. Most people would kill for two weeks off.”
Moe Strickland protested with a wet cough. “You’re docking us sick days, that’s the objection. Because we’re not really sick.”
“That’s something to be taken up with Personnel. It’s simply not my bailiwick.” Charles Chelsea waved his hands to clear the rancid smoke. The office was starting to smell like dead mice.
“I don’t see why they can’t just give us two weeks paid,” said Moe Strickland, “and leave us our sick days. Whatever happened, it’s sure not our fault.”
“No, it’s not,” Chelsea agreed. “Listen to me, Moe. Uncle Ely and the Elves are on vacation, all right? They went to Ireland. That’s the official story.”
“For Christ’s sake—Ireland? Does Ely sound like an Irish name?” Moe Strickland sneered in contempt.
“I’m not here to argue,” Chelsea said. “But I do wish to caution you against speaking to the media. All interview requests are to be routed through me, understand?”
“You mean like the newspapers.”
“Newspapers, television, anybody asking questions about a cruise. You tell them to call me. And make sure the elves do the same.”
“What, now you don’t trust us?”
“No interviews, Moe. The order comes straight from Mr. X.”
“Figures,” said Moe Strickland. “What’s the name of that disease? Tell me again.”
“Viral hepatitis.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“It’s a nasty one,” Chelsea conceded.
“Who in hell would make up a story like that?” The actor smacked on the soggy stump of cigar. “What kind of sick bastard would say such a thing?”
Chelsea did not reply. He was watchin
g a string of brown drool make its way down Moe Strickland’s snowy beard.
“I feel like suing the sonofabitch,” Moe Strickland remarked.
Chelsea said, “Don’t take it personally. It’s got nothing to do with you.”
“I never had hepatitis. Is it some kind of dick disease? Because if it is, we’re definitely suing the bastard. The boys’re as clean as a whistle down there and they can sure prove it.”
“Moe,” said Chelsea, “please settle down.”
“Does this mean we can’t march in the Jubilee?”
“Not as Uncle Ely and the elves. We’ll get you some other costumes—gunslingers, how about that?”
“Oh great, midget gunslingers. No thanks.” On his way out the door, Moe Strickland spit something heavy into Charles Chelsea’s wastebasket.
That night, Channel 7 devoted forty seconds to the hepatitis scare, closing the piece with a sound-bite from Charles Chelsea, cool in a crisp blue oxford shirt and tortoiseshell eyeglasses. The glasses were a new touch.
Not bad, thought Joe Winder, if you like the George Will look.
He was watching the news with a notebook on his lap. He called toward the kitchen: “He got the number of victims down from five to four. Plus he’s planted the idea that the disease was picked up in the Caribbean, not at the Amazing Kingdom. Pretty damn slick on short notice!”
Carrie Lanier was fixing popcorn. “So they’re toughing it out,” she said.
“Looks that way.”
She came out and placed the bowl on the sofa between them. “They’ve got to be worried.”
“I hope so.” Joe Winder thanked her again for stealing the letterhead paper from the stockroom in the Publicity Department. “And for renting the fax,” he added. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Not necessary, sir. Hey, I heard somebody shot up some rental cars on Card Sound Road.”
“Yeah, it was on the news.”
“Did they catch the guy?”
“No,” he said, “and they won’t.” He wondered if Skink’s sniper attack was the beginning of a major offensive.
Carrie pointed at the television. “Hey, look, it’s Monkey Mountain!”
A blue body bag was being carried out of the amusement park. A florid middle-aged schoolteacher, a Miss Pedrosa, was being interviewed about what happened. She said her students thought the man was merely sleeping, not dead. The news reporter said the victim was believed to be a recent immigrant, a Latin male in his mid-thirties. A police detective at the scene of the shooting said it appeared to be a suicide. The detective’s voice was nearly drowned out by the jabbering of angry baboons in a tree behind him.
Carrie said, “Well, Mr. X ought to be happy. Finally someplace else is getting bad press.”
“Strange place for a suicide,” observed Joe Winder.
Carrie Lanier stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “They gave me my new costume today. You’re gonna die.”
“Let’s see.”
It was a white fishnet tank suit. Carrie put it on and struck a Madonna pose. “Isn’t it awful?” she said.
Joe Winder said she looked irresistibly slutty. “The Indians aren’t going to like it, though.”
“I’ve got a headband, too. And a black wig.”
“The Seminoles didn’t wear fishnets; they used them on bass. By the way, are those your nipples?”
“Who else’s would they be?”
“What I mean is, isn’t there supposed to be something underneath?”
“A tan body stocking,” Carrie said. “I must’ve forgot to put it on.”
Winder told her not to bother. Exuberantly she positioned herself on his lap and fastened her bare legs around his waist. “Before we make love,” Carrie said, “you’ve got to hear the song.”
It was a bastardized version of the famous production number in Evita. They both burst out laughing when she did the refrain. “I can’t believe it,” Joe Winder said.
Carrie kept singing, “Don’t Cry for Me, Osceola!” Winder buried his face in her breasts. Unconsciously he began nibbling through the fishnet suit.
“Now stop.” Carrie clutched the back of his head. “I’ve forgotten the rest of the words.”
Still gnawing, Winder said, “I feel like a shark.”
“You do indeed.” She pulled him even closer. “I know a little boy who forgot to shave this morning, didn’t he?”
“I was busy writing.” A muffled voice rising out of her cleavage.
Carrie smiled. “I know you were writing, and I’m proud of you. What’s the big news at the Kingdom tomorrow—typhoid? Trichinosis?”
He lifted his head. “No more diseases. From now on, it’s the heavy artillery.”
She kissed him on the nose. “You’re a very sick man. Why do I like you so much?”
“Because I’m full of surprises.”
“Oh, like this?” Carrie grabbed him and gave a little tug. “Is this for me?”
“If you’re not careful.”
“Hold still,” she told him.
“Aren’t you going to take off that outfit?”
“What for? Look at all these convenient holes. We’ve just got to get you lined up.”
“It’s a good thing,” Joe Winder said, “it doesn’t have gills.”
He held his breath as Carrie Lanier worked on the delicate alignment. Then she adjusted the Naugahyde sofa cushion behind his head, and braced her hands on the windowsill. The lights from the highway skipped in her eyes, until she closed them. Slowly she started rocking and said, “Tonight we’re shooting for four big ones.”
“Excuse me?”
“I told you, Joe, I’m a very goal-oriented person.”
“I think I’m tangled.”
“You’re doing fine,” she said.
He was still hanging on, minutes later, when Carrie stopped moving.
“What is it?”
“Joe, did you go back to the apartment tonight?” She was whispering.
“Just for a minute. I needed some clothes.”
“Oh boy.”
“What’s the matter?”
Carrie said, “Somebody’s watching us. Somebody followed you here.” She lowered herself until she was flat against him, so she couldn’t be seen from the window. “It’s a man,” she said. “He’s just standing out there.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Very large.”
“Guess I’d better do something.”
“Such as?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Joe Winder said. “I need to refocus here.”
“In other words, you want me to climb off.”
“Well, I think the mood has been broken.”
“The thing is—”
“I know. We’ll need a scissors.” His fingers, his chin, everything was tangled in the netting.
Outside the trailer, something moved. A shadow flickering across the windowpane. Footsteps crunching on the gravel. Then a hand on the doorknob, testing the lock.
Carrie’s muscles tightened. She put her lips to his ear. “Joe, are we going to die like this?”
“There are worse ways,” he said.
And then the door buckled.
24
Skink said he was sorry, and turned away. Joe Winder and Carrie Lanier scrambled to disengage, tearing the fishnet suit to strings.
“I heard noises,” said Skink. “Thought there might be trouble.”
The adrenaline ebbed in a cold tingle from Winder’s veins. Breathlessly he said, “How’d you know I was here?”
“Followed you from the apartment.”
“In what—the bookmobile?”
“I’ve got friends,” Skink said.
While Joe Winder fastened his trousers, Carrie Lanier dived into a University of Miami football jersey. Skink turned to face them, and Carrie gamely shook his hand. She said, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Jim Morrison,” said Skink. “The Jim Morrison.”
“No, he’s no
t,” Winder said irritably.
Carrie smiled. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Morrison.” Winder considered her cordiality amazing in view of Skink’s menacing appearance.
Skink said, “I suppose he told you all about me.”
“No,” Carrie replied. “He didn’t say a word.”
Skink seemed impressed by Joe Winder’s discretion. To Carrie he said: “Feel free to stare.”
“I am staring, Mr. Morrison. Is that a snake you’re eating?”
“A mud snake, yes. Medium-rare.” He took a crackling bite and moved through the trailer, turning off the television and all the lights. “A precaution,” he explained, peeking out a window.
In the darkness Carrie found Joe Winder’s hand and squeezed it. Winder said, “This is the man who saved my life a couple weeks ago—the night I got beaten up, and you gave me a lift.”
“I live in the hammocks,” Skink interjected. “The heavy rains have brought out the snakes.”
Winder wondered when he would get to the point.
Carrie said, “Can I ask about the red collar? Is it some sort of neck brace?”
“No, it isn’t.” Skink crouched on his haunches in front of them, beneath the open window. The highway lights twinkled in his sunglasses.
“Events are moving haphazardly,” he said, gnawing a piece of the cooked reptile. “There needs to be a meeting. A confluence, if you will.”
“Of whom?” Winder asked.
“There are others,” Skink said. “They don’t know about you, and you don’t know about them.” He paused, cocking an ear toward the ceiling. “Hear that? It’s the plane. They’ve been tracking me all damn day.”
Carrie gave Joe Winder a puzzled look. He said, “The rangers from Game and Fish—it’s a long story.”
“Government,” Skink said. “A belated pang of conscience, at taxpayer expense. But Nature won’t be fooled, the damage is already done.”
Sensing trouble, Winder lurched in to change the subject. “So who are these mysterious others?”